


100% Chocolat Noir à la Fleur de Sel

by FelicityGS



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: BDSM, Breathplay, Dom/sub Play, F/M, Knife Play, seriously guys this one's brittle and angry dark, shattery broken messy dark things because that's the sort of mood I was in when I wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 11:12:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicityGS/pseuds/FelicityGS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Ingredients</em>
</p>
<p>1 Pepper, soaked 5 years in 2nd best wine<br/>1 genius playboy philanthropist, disenchanted and blind<br/>1 god of chaos, frozen and freshly cracked<br/>1 fistful Fleur de Sel, finest you can find</p>
            </blockquote>





	100% Chocolat Noir à la Fleur de Sel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youcrashstanding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcrashstanding/gifts).



> So yeah, those tags? Relevant. This one is very dark and brittle and angry and all sorts of things I was feeling at the time. It doesn't go near comic-canon and is at best a loose interpreation of what five years down the road could be in movie verse. So there's that.
> 
> Warnings: blood, bdsm, dom/sub elements, breathplay, tying people up
> 
> It's all consensual though!
> 
> Oh. And Merry Christmas You Crash. <3

_Ingredients_  
  
 _1 Pepper, soaked 5 years in 2nd best wine_  
 _1 genius playboy philanthropist, disenchanted and blind_  
 _1 god of chaos, frozen and freshly cracked_  
 _1 fistful Fleur de Sel, finest you can find_  
  
 _Instructions_  
  
“Tony, if you walk out that door—”  
  
She stopped short as he turned to look at her, eyes flashing.  
  
“What?”  
  
 _You don’t care_.  
  
“What, Pepper? You’ll walk out like you always say you will and then don’t? Would you really? _Seriously_? Because of this? You _know_ this Pepper, this is my _job_ , I’m not going to just turn away. This isn’t about just you and me and me staying late at this office—if I don’t go _people die_.”  
  
 _I only wished to offer comfort. It pains me to see such a clever woman neglected so._  
  
She grit her teeth, trying to choke back tears. He didn’t come any closer, didn’t try to comfort her. No gentle cupping of her face, no kiss on her forehead and a small smile that he’d be back soon. Just anger and resentment.  
  
 _He’s killing me._  
  
“We’ve been over this. What more do you want from me? What do you want?! You knew this going in. We talked about this—”  
  
 _I know._  
  
The insistent buzz of his phone, letting him know he was needed now.  
  
 _What do you want out of this? Get out. I don’t need someone to listen._  
  
“Answer me!”  
  
 _This is not about_ me _, Mrs. Stark. I’m not important_. _And you haven’t called for anyone yet._  
  
She pressed a hand to her mouth and turned away. Silence, then his footsteps and the door slamming behind him as he went.  
  
She stood there in the bathrobe he’d gotten her for her birthday. He’d actually bought it, and it showed—she hates the colour blue, specifically this periwinkle more blue than purple thing. But he’d bought it for her and that had been enough, then. It was always enough, when he did notice her, when he smiled, when he cared. It had to be.  
  
 _It’s always one disaster after another and leaving you at home to pick up the pieces; and he always takes it for_ granted _that you will, doesn’t he? with a razor edge buried in that smile that she knows as well as she knows her own name._  
  
She was crying, silent, tears spilling fat and heavy over her cheeks but she refused to acknowledge them. She wanted him here, with her. She wanted someone to lean into, because outside it was storming, thunderous, and she hated the lightning that crackles and the loud noise that follows. She walked to the bar (because why would he ever stop drinking for her), picked up the heavy crystal decanter he kept his favourite scotch in. Studied it, ran her fingers over the worked crystal, then threw it at the window with a wordless scream.  
  
The crystal shattered, smell of scotch filled the air, and golden liquid slid down the window.  
  
She watched it and wondered if Loki hurt this way, or if this was because she loves Tony so desperately and foolishly. Wondered if family love hurt with the raw edge that this did.  
  
 _I was never enough, and he never listened to me. Oh, I tried, of course I did. But enough about me, it is not important. It’s not the same as this._  
  
She had no proof Tony had ever brought another to their bed. Once they were married, that was it.  
  
But there were all the times before.  
  
 _He never remembers your birthday, does he? and the flick of a sad smile, understanding green eyes that know even though she never said a word about that_.  
  
Lightning flashed and moments later thunder cracked. She flinched and hugged herself.  
  
She hated thunderstorms.  
  
She didn’t want to be alone again. Didn’t want to have this storm and their argument that meant even if he did come back tonight he’d probably sleep in the workshop, away from her, bury himself in repairs and schematics and things that wouldn’t claw for his attention. Away until she would finally barge in and demand that he leave, take care of other work, shower, bathe, eat, and resent her more because she cares and she can’t keep herself away. Even if he wasn’t bringing anyone else back, she was so _tired_ of sleeping alone.  
  
 _If you ever need me…_  
  
“Loki,” she whispered, flinching at another loud boom of thunder that drowned out the syllables. The room stayed empty, dark. Alone.  
  
She turned away from the window and started to walk back to the (empty) bed.  
  
“Mrs. Stark? Is everything well?”  
  
She stopped and turned, saw the silhouette standing there twisted to look at the window and still slowly dripping scotch. Green eyes sparkled with concern when he looked back at her, concern and anger and something else she didn’t know how to place. “What happened? Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?”  
  
He met her halfway, elegant hands framing her face, pushing her hair back and just looking. A thumb brushed away some of the tears spilling down and she bit back a sob. Just looked at him. Her heart writhed in her chest, bit on itself and twisted. Something dark and angry floated there, beneath the surface, and she had never wanted to not be alone so much in her life. Never wanted to hurt _him_ so much in her life.  
  
“Mrs. Stark?” Loki asked softly, hands moving until they settled on her arms.  
  
She reached up, brushed a strand of hair out of his face. His eyes flicked to follow it, then back to her, and something like uncertainty flickered in those green depths.  
  
So very different from brown eyes that never looked at her like _this_.  
  
He was taller and stronger; she still pulled him down, claimed that slightly frowning mouth. She wanted to _take_ instead of give, this one time. Wanted to _hurt_. She bit down on those perfect lips until she felt the tang of blood fill her mouth; Loki made a slightly pained half-questioning noise in the back of his throat and she dug her fingers in tighter in his hair and stood there kissing him languidly, licked the blood off his lip as if she had all the time in the world.  
  
She pulled away slowly and settled back on her heels, but she did not let go of his hair. He looked at her with half-lidded eyes, the faintest flush rising on his razor sharp cheeks; blood trickled down his lip onto his chin, stark against his pale skin.  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
He was not Tony.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
A flicker of surprise and something _else._ Something dark and greedy and sweet as cyanide.  
  
“What do you want?” he whispered, hands trailing along the edges of her robe, slightest touch of skin on skin searing her nerves. “Tell me.”  
  
She tugged his hair until he was on his knees before her, pale neck exposed. With her other hand she traced the pale expanse, ran along the beating pulse, then wrapped her hand around and squeezed so his breath was shallow and ragged, eyes filled with a slow blaze of lust.  
  
It was not love.  
  
It was not Tony.  
  
It would do.  
  
“Worship me,” she ordered, digging her nails into his throat and watching blood well up in the crescent shaped marks. She let go of his hair and trailed fingers to his still bleeding lip. Pressed a finger against his mouth. “Suck.”  
  
His tongue ran along the pad of her finger, teeth grazed along the knuckle. His eyes slid closed and he nipped hard against the flesh—she pulled her finger away and back-handed him, his head whipping to the side. She kept her other hand firmly around his neck, squeezing tighter. He looked back at her, breath shallow and struggling, cheek reddening and a trickle of blood from where her wedding band had split his skin. Something dark and vicious buzzed through her and she wanted _more_.  
  
She bound his wrists painfully tight behind his back with his shirt, cut off with a piece of the shattered decanter. Traced and dug with the alcohol coated shard into his flesh, his hisses drowning in the thunder, until his blood soaked his pale perfect skin and spattered around them on the marble. Felt how painfully hard he was through his pants with one hand, let him mewl and arch into the touch, let his blood smear across her skin and open robe. Supported herself with his shoulder and the bar behind her, forced his head between her legs, tossing her head back and simply _enjoying_ ; she yanked his hair viciously when the ache faded for a moment and beat him until bruises blossomed and he looked at her with glittering green eyes and begged _more_ , hips twitching and licking bloodied lips, with eyes only for _her_.  
  
She found herself smiling the way he did, cold and cruel and vicious. Something inside unfurled at the way his breath hitched when he saw that smile.  
  
She forced him onto his back, kept a foot on his chest as he tried to shift, to ease the pain searing into his shoulders, wrists still bound behind his back. Watched the way he watched her, then picked up the bloodied shard again. Felt him try to still as she started to cut into his pants, listened to how he hissed and bit back groans when the shard slipped and tore at the skin beneath, watched him arch and writhe as she used one bloodied hand to start to stroke him, and _took_.  
  
Let him beg, and traced along the pale outline of his hips with her fingers, bloody scratches that left red caked beneath her nails. Bit deeply into the soft flesh of his thigh and he screamed—she let go, left him panting and oh so close, cock glistening with pre-cum. When he began to swear, to curse, to threaten, she slapped his face again, where a bruise was blossoming dark and purple on his razor sharp cheek and he stared at her, surprise etched on his features.  
  
She fucked him there, rode him and when he would get close would stop, made him beg, let words spill off his lips and made him _worship_ her before she’d start again. Made him lick the blood off her hands and then dug fingers into his ribs, teeth into his shoulders, so that he bled fresh, until his eyes were glazed with pain and lust and _need_.  
  
When it was over, when her eyes slipped closed and she sat there straddling him, breath heavy, silence enveloped them both. In the quiet, she remembered dark and greed and sweet cyanide look, finally placed that emotion—triumph. She didn’t weep. She opened her eyes and looked at him, where he was regarding her, eyes lazy, breath still shallow.  
  
She felt like ice.  
  
The tiniest little smile flickered in his eyes and something like glee hovered at the edges. He’d gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he?  
  
She stood, left him there on the floor. Took off the bloody robe and let the silk spill onto him where he lay, hands still bound. He could show himself out. Walked to the bedroom to change.  
  
When she came out, he was gone, blood still splattered and pooled on the floor, shards of glass glittering in the city lights from outside, smell of sex and scotch heavy in the air. She picked up the shard that was covered in their blood, that she’d used to cut away his clothes and into his flesh. Wrapped it the strip of shirt she’d tied him up with and put it in the bag she was carrying. In its place on the floor, she put her wedding band.  
  
Glanced at the room one last time.  
  
“Jarvis, give my regards to Mr. Stark.”  
  
Walked out and didn’t look back.


End file.
